


like bruised prize fighters

by madanach



Series: empire building [1]
Category: K-pop, Winner (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, Foursome - M/M/M/M, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Polyamory, consensual voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-06-26 10:12:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15661134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madanach/pseuds/madanach
Summary: “Sorry for bringing it up,” Yoon says. “I will refrain from commenting, next time, on whether Tiger JK is boyfriend material.”“Wouldn’t you get beard burn?” Hoon asks.“Oh my god,” Yoon says. “Do you have something you need to tell us?”





	like bruised prize fighters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shookyfan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shookyfan/gifts), [shellfishDimes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shellfishDimes/gifts).



> [redacted] 07/22/2018  
> hoon pre-winner: i'm straight  
> hoon after living with a million gays for ages: i'm, like, you know??? i'm easy  
> [redacted] 07/22/2018  
> BSJS  
> hoony: im like.... convince me

“You are talking about this so much right now,” Minho says.

“I am not,” Hoon says.

He is talking about it a lot, Yoon thinks. He’s being very weird and circular about it too, saying things like _it’s not that I’ve never considered it_ and _well,_ everyone’s _into GD_ , and _but_ _guys are so tall?!_ and at one point he used the word “heteroflexible” and Jinwoo kicked him in the knee.

Yoon tries to be very respectful about these things, and not project his long, confused journey of torrid romance and sexual discovery and well-fuck-I’m-an-idol panic on the people around him, who have their own lives and their own stories and their own shit to get through, but also, he’s said _I just don’t get it_ in that exact same tone of voice before and now he’s bisexual, so.

He crosses his legs underneath him and looks at Hoon, flopped down on his stomach and taking up all of the couch.

“Sorry for bringing it up,” he says. “I will refrain from commenting, next time, on whether Tiger JK is boyfriend material.”

“Wouldn’t you get beard burn?” Hoon asks.

“Oh my god,” Yoon says. “Do you have something you need to tell us?”

“You would get beard burn,” Jinwoo says. He’s kneeling on the L of the couch, trying to balance his empty wine glass on Minho’s head. Minho has his nose crinkled up like he needs to sneeze, trying to keep still. “It’s fine. You wouldn’t die.”

“Are you sure,” Hoon says lowly.

“You’re so delicate,” Jinwoo says airily. Minho catches the wine glass when it tips forward and hands it back.

“What’s up with you, man?” Yoon asks. He stares across the room at his own wine glass, abandoned on the kitchen counter next to the empty bottle, tries to will more alcohol into it with his brain.

“Nothing’s up with me,” Hoon says, sounding offended.

“Please have your sexual crisis alone in a studio bathroom like the rest of us did,” Minho says. 

“Speak for yourself,” Jinwoo says.

“Why, what did you do?”

Jinwoo shrugs. “I mean, it was in a studio bathroom.”

“Augh,” Hoon says weakly, and then, _again_ , “I’m just not convinced.”

“No one’s trying to convince you, you dipshit,” Yoon says. “You sound like you want to be convinced.”

“I didn’t say that,” Hoon says, lifting his hand to point at Yoon for two seconds before dropping it back to the floor.

“Not like you had to,” Minho says, and then to the side, to Jinwoo, “Did you blow a dancer?”

“Yup,” Jinwoo says.

Minho nods sagely. Jinwoo catches the wine glass before it falls. Hoon says, loudly, “I don’t think I get it.”

“Can you shut up?” Minho asks. “For two seconds, please? You talk so much.”

“I am a joy to be around,” Hoon says easily. “You know, though, like, what’s the appeal?”

In retrospect, Yoon has not had that much to drink. In retrospect, Yoon has had a glass of wine and two sips of that nasty cheap soju they were trying to get out of the fridge, which barely even registers as tipsy. In retrospect, Yoon does not really have an excuse for why he sighs, loud and exaggerated, and then gets up on his hands and knees to grab Hoon by the back of the neck, pull him halfway off of the couch and kiss him.

He doesn’t know what he expects. Maybe he thinks Hoon will freeze, or pull away and start laughing, or sputter and go red and look offended until Yoon rolls his eyes and tells him not to be a baby.

What happens is: Hoon kisses him back, and Yoon’s brain stops working, and then they’re making out, a little bit, in the middle of their living room.

Someone sucks in a breath behind them. Yoon thinks, _agh_.

Hoon pushes his hand into Yoon’s hair, scratching his nails against his scalp. Nothing about the way he’s kissing him feels hesitant. Yoon’s grip on his neck must hurt but he’s not complaining, just parting his lips enough to kiss him right and trying to pull him further in. When they run out of air he pulls back minutely to breathe, and Yoon’s brain says _hey, this would be a great time to_ — and then Hoon is pushing back in, his mouth open enough that Yoon can’t do anything but open his in response, let him find out if he tastes like wine.

Something crashes loudly to the floor.

Yoon scrambles backwards. Hoon almost falls off the couch because of how strong their grip is on each other. They stare at each other, wide-eyed, and then look over at Minho, sitting ramrod-straight, and Jinwoo, whose wine glass is rocking softly on its side below him.

“It was empty,” Jinwoo says hoarsely.

Hoon laughs, too quick and too sharp. Yoon swallows. He’s digging his nails into his palm and it hurts, the way he’s sitting right now, with his ankles twisted underneath him on the cold tile, but he doesn’t want to move because he doesn’t want anyone to look at him.

_You can’t, you’re the leader_ , come his thoughts, and then he stops thinking them, because he doesn’t want to, and because he’s thinking about Hoon’s mouth.

Minho and Jinwoo are still staring at them. They look—

_Oh_ , he can’t think about how they look.

“Hey, hyung,” Minho says.

“Yeah?” says Hoon.

“Are you convinced?”

Jinwoo inhales audibly. Yoon isn’t thinking about that, either, about his hands fisted in his T-shirt or his wine glass rocking on the floor. He sits up straighter.

Hoon looks at him, sees something in his face. Then he looks at Minho.

“Not yet,” he says, and though his voice is rough it’s decisive.

Minho kicks Jinwoo’s wine glass trying to get to him. Yoon watches it like it’s slow motion, the glass bouncing back against the couch and skidding away, clattering against the closet door where Jhonny goes to sleep, while on the opposite side of the room Minho kisses Hoon so hard he pushes him back into the couch cushions.

The room suddenly seems very small.

Yoon hears himself make a noise, something throaty and embarassing, and it’s echoed by Jinwoo, whose knuckles are going white. Minho and Hoon don’t hear them. Hoon has both of his hands in Minho’s hair.

The part of him that’s still thinking about Hoon’s mouth makes an executive decision. He crawls over to where Jinwoo has his hands fisted in the hem of his shirt and sits back against the couch heavily, pulls his knees up, drops his head back into Jinwoo’s lap. 

Jinwoo makes a small noise best labeled as a whine. He threads his fingers into Yoon’s hair and pulls at it, then runs his hands down farther and touches his collarbones, the top of his chest, leaning forward and shifting on the couch as he tries to lay down. He presses his lips against the crown of his head and reaches down. Yoon grabs his hands, laces fingers with one and squeezes the other, and Jinwoo squeezes back.

Hoon groans, over on the couch, the sound muffled by Minho’s mouth. Yoon’s breath hitches, and Jinwoo must feel it, because he pulls up one of his hands to cup Yoon’s chin and tilt it back to kiss him, upside-down like in movies.

Yoon exhales harshly and reaches up to grab his hair with his free hand. It doesn’t even _work_. He’s trying to drag him down and kiss him deeper but their teeth keep hitting each other, and there are noses where chins should be and chins where noses should be, and Yoon is dying, maybe, trying to pull him closer. Their other hands are still clasped at Yoon’s chest — Jinwoo’s putting so much pressure against his ribs that he feels it in his lungs, but he doesn’t want to let go, just like he doesn’t want to stop kissing him for the seconds it would take to turn around and kiss him properly.

He reaches back and grabs at Jinwoo’s collar instead, trying to communicate without words. Jinwoo curls forward, twisting around, and that’s better — they can kiss normally, at least, though Jinwoo is halfway off the couch and leaning most of his weight on Yoon’s shoulder.

Yoon pulls a bit harder at the collar of Jinwoo’s shirt. His intent is to pull him into his lap, but he temporarily forgets about the existence of gravity. Jinwoo unbalances and falls onto the floor.

“Ack,” Jinwoo says.

“Sorry!” Yoon yelps. He grabs at Jinwoo like he can belatedly catch him. Jinwoo blinks up at him, betrayed and confused.

“Oh my god,” comes Hoon’s voice from the couch. “Oh my god, you idiots.”

Yoon hides his face in his hands. Jinwoo laughs, pushing himself up enough to sit mostly against Yoon’s knees.

Minho gasps. “Were you kissing?”

“Oh my god,” Hoon says, “You idiot.”

Yoon peeks out from between his fingers. Minho has climbed most of the way on the couch, leaning over Hoon with his knee between his legs. Hoon is laying on his back, looking rumpled. His mouth is pleasantly pink.

Hoon gives them a thumbs up.

“Aw,” Jinwoo says. Yoon extends his legs on either side of him, leans forward and wraps his arms around his waist. He hooks his chin over Jinwoo’s shoulder and looks at them.

Minho narrows his eyes. “You were kissing.”

Jinwoo makes a face. Hoon says, “Are we still on this? Catch up.” Minho knees him in the stomach.

Yoon squeezes Jinwoo’s waist. “Guys,” he says. They all look at him.

He takes a moment — a good, substantial moment, long enough that the silence rings a bit, but they don’t interrupt them. He waits for the earlier panic to come back. It doesn’t.

“So we’re doing this?” he says, when the lack of cataclysm has satisfied him.

“Please,” Minho says. Jinwoo nods. They all go quiet waiting for Hoon.

“Well,” Hoon says after a moment, “I guess I was convinced.”

Jinwoo groans. “Shut the fuck up,” Yoon breathes. “What’s wrong with you, you freak?”

“I had to—” Hoon says, before Minho leans down and claps his hand over his mouth.

“Okay, he’s done,” Minho says. “We can go.”

Hoon wriggles pathetically, trying to shove Minho off the couch with his knee. Yoon chuckles into Jinwoo’s cheek, feeling stupidly pleased when Jinwoo twists back into it, presses his own smile in close. Minho sees them and grins, and Hoon takes advantage of his distraction to drag his hand away and struggle upwards.

“Hang on, hang on,” he says, sitting up. He cocks his eyebrow solicitously. “I’m still only two for three.”

Minho laughs, getting to his feet and tugging at the crotch of his jeans. “Go for it,” he says. Jinwoo shakes his head and pulls out of Yoon’s arms to climb onto the couch, climb into Hoon’s lap.

“Ah,” Yoon says, and Minho echoes it as Hoon fists his hand in Jinwoo’s hair, drags him closer in by the hip and kisses him, open-mouthed and _loud_. Jinwoo rocks inward. Hoon’s knuckles go white and then disappear under his shirt.

Yoon stands up, lest he start jacking off while sitting on the fucking floor. Minho reaches out for him blindly, eyes rooted on Hoon and Jinwoo.

“We, should, uh,” Yoon says.

“Get naked?” Minho asks.

“Find a bed,” Yoon clarifies.

“This is why you’re the leader,” Minho says.

Hoon says something into Jinwoo’s ear and Jinwoo laughs, cards his fingers through Hoon’s hair and keeps kissing him, even when the hand that was in his hair comes to the waistband of his sweats, even when the other pulls up the back of his shirt so far that Yoon and Minho see the small of his back, the gently moving knobs of his spine.

“Hyungs?” Minho says, his voice cracking.

Jinwoo turns around to look at them, pink-lipped and innocent. Hoon grins.

“Bed,” Yoon says. “I am—” he says, and then, “As the instigator of all this—” and then, “Bed.”

Minho makes a pathetic noise of gratitude. Yoon slips his hand into Minho’s back pocket. Hoon stands up, Jinwoo whooping as he grabs him underneath the thighs.

“You’re heavier than you look,” Hoon says to Jinwoo. “It’s hot.”

Jinwoo says, “You’re so weird.”

Hoon points at the bedroom corridor. “Onward!”

Yoon moves his hand to Minho’s side, to the soft skin under the hem of his shirt, pulls him towards their rooms. “Whose—”

“Mine smells like dog shit,” Hoon says.

Minho twists to look behind him, careful not to displace Yoon’s hand. “Jinwoo-hyung?”

“Sure,” Yoon hears Jinwoo say. “Watch for the cats.” Hoon loudly kisses what Yoon hopes is his cheek.

Yoon digs his fingers into Minho’s hip because he can, opens the door to Jinwoo’s room. He fumbles for the lightswitch for a second before finding it, and in that time Minho breaks from his grip, bounds forward onto the bed, and claims all three pillows.

“No,” Yoon says. The room smells like detergent and the cologne Jinwoo’s dad bought for him on debut, the only one he’s bought since. The light exposes his dirty laundry, piled precariously on his desk chair, and his clean laundry, strewn on the floor.

“Yo, I don’t think you thought this system through,” Minho says.

“Aw, fuck, cat,” says Hoon.

“Bei!” Jinwoo yells. The cats run to claim spaces on Jinwoo’s pillows, find them occupied, and instead claim spaces on Minho.

Jinwoo makes a long-suffering noise into Hoon’s neck. Hoon says, “Children? Cats.” Minho drags Rey and Bei into his arms and blows raspberries into their bald foreheads.

Yoon points at him. “You are not allowed to kiss me with cat mouth.”

“Hmm,” Minho says. “They’re cuter than you are, though.”

Hoon drops Jinwoo onto the bed with a dramatic sigh. “Children?” he says again.

“Cats,” Jinwoo finishes.

Minho looks like them like he’s going to protest. Hoon crawls onto the bed, straddling Jinwoo, and then Minho gathers a cat in each arm and bolts for the door.

“Bye!” Minho says as they yowl.

The door slams.

For a second, they all look at each other: Jinwoo on his back, pleasantly disheveled; Hoon on top of him, faking innocence; Minho with the door behind him, standing uncomfortably straight; and Yoon, in the middle of the room where they left him, unsure where to start.

“So what was that about cat mouth?” Minho says weakly.

“Get on the bed,” Yoon says softly, before he can think better of it.

He can feel Jinwoo and Hoon watching him. Minho goes quietly, a pink tinge to his cheeks that suggests he doesn’t mind being bossed around. He sits on the bed, folding his bare feet underneath him, turned towards Hoon and Jinwoo but not enough to impose. There’s a stiffness to their postures, an untouched air in the room.

Yoon walks towards the bed until his knees hit it. He holds his hand out to Minho.

Minho doesn’t take it. He pushes his cheek into it, like a cat, and waits for direction.

“Seunghoon-hyung,” Yoon says. His voice sounds far away even to himself. Minho noses Yoon’s palm, his lips finding his thumb. “What do you want?”

“Me?” Hoon says, managing incredulity, like this whole thing didn’t start with him and his stupid game. There’s a rustle of fabric: Jinwoo sitting up.

“You,” Jinwoo says, pointedly, quietly.

“You,” Yoon echoes, as Minho opens his mouth for his thumb, closes his eyes.

“I, ah,” Hoon says. Yoon’s concentration fights its way out of the dark place it has found in Minho’s mouth. “I want.”

“Me too,” Yoon whispers.

They watch Minho crack his jaw, hollow his cheeks for the spectacle of it, for the hiss of Hoon’s breath and the short exhalation of Jinwoo’s, for the great gaps in Yoon’s thoughts that the wet heat of him creates.

The tension snaps.

Minho lets out a short gasp of surprise as Yoon surges forward, the same moment as Jinwoo scrambles behind him, as Hoon lunges for the fly of his pants.

Jinwoo grabs him by the collar and hauls him backwards. Yoon kisses him, cupping his face to press his wet thumb underneath his jaw even though it almost throws him off-balance. Hoon elbows Yoon in the chest trying to get Minho’s fly unzipped, and Minho goes “Oh, shit, ah—” into Yoon’s mouth before Hoon finally gets his pants off. 

The jeans hit Jinwoo’s closet door. “Shirt, shirt,” Hoon says urgently, until Minho sits up, breaks away from Yoon enough for Hoon to yank it off, to spread a broad palm across his stomach.

Jinwoo’s fingers drift across Minho’s ribs. He scoots forward, legs bracketing Minho’s back, says something low into the top of his spine.

“Yes,” Minho breathes.

Yoon pulls away so Hoon can run his hands where he was touching, wrap his long fingers around Minho’s neck and hold him still. Minho sucks in a breath.

Jinwoo’s delicate fingers, his thin rings disappear below the waistband of Minho’s boxers.

Minho moans.

“Fuck yes,” Hoon says. “ _Fuck_ , Minho, yes.” Minho rocks forward, his hips liquid like they are in their dances, and Yoon is never going to be able to watch him onstage again, ever, _ever_ , not now that he knows how he looks with Jinwoo’s arms around his waist, holding him back as he thrusts, with Hoon’s grin against his slack lips and hands making him look small.

Hoon pulls Minho onto his lap. It doesn’t take much effort. Minho goes easy, grabbing Jinwoo’s wrist to keep him against him as they move. Jinwoo goes up onto his knees and Minho’s boxers slip down around his thighs, exposing Jinwoo’s lazily moving fingers, Minho’s reddening cock.

Yoon shoves down his pants, gets a hand on himself. He’s not opposed to waiting his turn — he’s not opposed to _watching_ — but he has to do something.

Jinwoo turns to look at him, his cheek against the rocking plane of Minho’s shoulderblade. Yoon pushes his sweats down further, bites his lip just to show off.

“You look good,” Jinwoo says, strained.

“So do you,” Yoon says. His hair is a mess, his lips still red from Hoon, and Minho’s movement is catching his shirt, the white one that used to be Hoon’s, the one he washed Haute in that never lost the red mud stains. Jinwoo liked it because it was lived-in, and because he could walk around without shorts in the summer and not feel self-conscious. The collar drags down his neck and shoulder, elastic from years of wear. Yoon wants to tear it off.

“Hyung,” Minho says then, sounding wrecked, and Yoon looks back at him: the tense curve of his back, his hands fisted in Hoon’s shirt, his trapped legs and open mouth as Hoon kisses him. Jinwoo sits up straighter, kisses and then bites his bony shoulder, the one that says _be kind_.

Minho gasps. “Jinu,” Hoon says, trying to sound scandalized but mostly just sounding turned on.

“You shouldn’t be wearing clothes,” Jinwoo says with his chin hooked over Minho’s shoulder, innocent as sin.

“Hypocrite,” Hoon mutters, leaning forward to kiss him. Minho yanks at the bottom of his shirt with unsteady hands until Hoon shushes him and leans back enough to pull it off. Minho collapses against Jinwoo, breathing heavy and watching.

Jinwoo switches hands. Minho rolls his hips back into him until he shudders. Yoon says, “Hyung, pants too.”

Hoon grins. His face is red. “You first.”

Minho turns enough to look at Yoon, watches as he props himself on the pillows, trying to be hot and not awkward, not sure it matters since his dick’s already out. All of their eyes on him makes his heart race. He fists himself again, letting his mouth go slack, and lifts his hips.

Jinwoo and Minho reach for his sweats at the same time. They have to let each other go to do it, Jinwoo leaning backwards and Minho climbing forward, both of them grabbing the fabric around Yoon’s knees and pulling. Yoon slips a bit, laughing when his feet get tangled, forgetting, momentarily, that he’s supposed to be putting on a show.

His pants fall onto the floor. Jinwoo touches the inside of his knee, runs his hand up until Yoon shivers.

“Now you,” Yoon says to Hoon, reaching to curl his fingers in Jinwoo’s hair.

There’s a rustle and then Minho whistles, low, but Yoon doesn’t look up yet: he’s busy watching Jinwoo’s fingers, his rings, the shining patch on his thumb and forefinger that must be from Minho. In the background, two figures converge on each other.

Jinwoo hums appreciatively. “C’mere and kiss me,” Yoon mumbles. The bed creaks as Minho topples into Hoon, as Jinwoo parts his lips and Yoon is allowed to decide if he wants to be gentle.

He chooses long, indulgent kisses for the way Jinwoo has to swallow his laugh, wanting to smile past it but needing to kiss back, and for the hum that takes up residence at the back of his throat. His hand reaches Yoon’s, wrapping around his lax knuckles for a moment before taking over. Yoon moves his hands to cup Jinwoo’s face and finds himself grinning too.

Behind them, Minho says, “You have a _huge_ dick.”

“I feel like you knew this,” Hoon says.

“Yeah, but like—” and Hoon moans, taken by surprise, “Seriously huge.”

Jinwoo giggles into Yoon’s mouth, which is sweet and a little bit intensely hot. Yoon thrusts forward, wondering how he never realized how long Jinwoo’s fingers are. He presses forward and bites Jinwoo’s bottom lip until he gasps, then pulls his hand down, drags the collar of Jinwoo’s shirt forward. “I feel like we’re neglecting you,” he says. “You still have all your clothes.”

Yoon catches Jinwoo’s chin as he pulls back, kisses him, again, because he can.

“Not my fault,” Jinwoo says when he breaks away, his innocent act broken by his grip tightening around Yoon’s dick.

“Hmm,” Yoon whispers. “Then whose?”

Jinwoo pushes Yoon backwards until he gasps, driven down into the pillows. “Seunghoon’s,” he says, loud enough for them to hear.

“I did what?” comes Hoon’s voice. “Ah—ah. Oh, Minho-yah, look. They’re being _sweet_ ,” he says, the mischief in his tone almost swallowed by the warmth.

Jinwoo looks down at his hand on Yoon’s dick, then looks up at Hoon. “Hm.”

Yoon stares at Hoon’s legs around Minho’s waist, Minho sprawled over him, the clear red imprint of teeth around his nipple. “You guys look like a porno.”

Minho makes a face and bites Hoon’s nipple again. Hoon says, “Jinu. Jinu, come over here. Our leader clearly isn’t doing his job.”

“How _dare_ you,” Yoon says. Jinwoo laughs as Yoon fists his hand in his shirt. “Stay with me, hyung. He’s greedy. He’ll mistreat you.” Minho mumbles incoherent agreement from where he has his face buried in Hoon’s stomach.

“This is so—” Hoon says, and then, “I can _leave_. See where that leaves you all.”

Minho lifts his head. “In hyung’s bed with our dicks out?”

Yoon cackles. Jinwoo grabs the back of Minho’s bare leg, and Minho rushes to jump backward, falls on top of the both of them. Yoon adjusts so his dick isn’t being squished. Minho rubs down against Jinwoo’s knee.

“No!” Hoon yells. “Please! I was joking! I’m so lonely. I’m so hard.”

“Tough shit,” Jinwoo says primly, grabbing Minho’s ass.

“Hyung,” Hoon says, outraged. “ _Hyung_.”

“Now he’s formal,” Yoon whispers.

Minho giggles. Jinwoo tilts to give him a better angle to rut, pressing his lips to Minho’s ear, and Yoon is hit sharply by the memory of their first solo concert as a four-piece, when Minho’s mic broke two minutes before stage and Jinwoo stood in front of him as the techs worked, wiping each of his nonsense heartbroken tears away so they wouldn’t ruin his makeup.

Yoon says, “Oh no.”

The both of them look up.

“I’m having _leader feelings_ ,” Yoon says. “While we’re _fucking_.”

“You nerd,” Hoon says, like he’s not sitting on the end of Jinwoo’s bed jacking off.

“Can I suck your dick?” Minho asks.

Leader feelings gone.

“Please suck my dick,” Yoon says fervently. “I would _love_ for you to suck my dick.”

Minho grins brightly. Yoon’s heart flutters. Also, his dick aches.

Jinwoo wriggles next to them, maybe trying to get out, maybe trying to get closer in. Hoon says, loudly, “Now that that’s settled—” and Jinwoo says “Oh, get over here.”

The bed groans in protest as Hoon dives to the head of it, tugging Jinwoo away and wrapping him in his arms.

“We can’t break my bed,” Jinwoo warns, straddling him.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Hoon says. Minho pulls off Yoon’s shirt and tosses it to the side. Then he kisses his collarbone, runs his hand down his ribs until he shudders, and moves lower.

“Seunghoon,” Jinwoo says from beside them, and then, “—Ah—”

Yoon breathes in. Minho chases it down his chest with his tongue. Beside them Hoon’s hands are wandering, Jinwoo curved all the way down to kiss him. Yoon thinks, _I’m so lucky_.

“Hm?” says Minho.

“Keep going,” Yoon says. He brushes back Minho’s hair, wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

“Minho-yah, can you—” Jinwoo says.

“I’m busy,” Minho mumbles, kissing the line of muscle at Yoon’s hips.

“Bottom drawer, Yoon-ah, please.”

Yoon looks over at Jinwoo’s sweats, halfway down his thighs; at Hoon’s moving wrist; at his stupid huge shirt, hiding the view. His hands are white-knuckled on Hoon’s shoulders.

“What are we—” Hoon starts.

“If you don’t want to fuck me, we can do something else,” Jinwoo says.

“Holy fucking shit,” Yoon says, at the same moment as Minho mouths messily at the underside of his dick.

“ _Please_ , Yoon,” Hoon says, sounding tortured.

“I’m going to die,” Yoon breathes. Minho’s going _so slow_ , his thumb and forefinger ringed around Yoon’s dick in the thinnest possible circle, mouth open and tongue out but not touching.

“Yoon,” Hoon says again. Minho’s playing dumb — Yoon can tell from the lines between his eyebrows, from the hint of a smirk at the corner of his lips.

Before he can think better of it, Yoon fists his hand in Minho’s hair and pulls.

Minho goes up on his elbows, gasping. Yoon almost reaches out to him, an apology on the tip of his tongue, but then he moans and rocks his hips down into the bed.

Yoon goes, “Oh,” files that away.

“Maknae,” Hoon says through gritted teeth.

Yoon still can’t catch his breath. He stares at Minho. Minho stares back. Finally he manages, not looking away, “I’m maknae now?”

Jinwoo’s voice comes wavering, like through water. “Stop playing games.”

_Don’t stop_ , Minho mouths.

Yoon gives Minho a look, one that he hopes encompasses the full gamut of emotions he’s running right now, the _You’re gorgeous_ and the _This isn’t normally my thing but I’ll do it for you_ and the _Your mouth is unbelievable_ and maybe a bit of the _I love you_ that flows under all of his interactions with Minho, all of his interactions with any of them, his members, who he’ll follow to death and back.

Minho smiles. Yoon thinks, _Yeah, that_.

He leans over the side of the bed and finds the lube and condoms.

“Thank you,” Jinwoo says when he tosses them at him, with a thick tinge to his voice that suggests he was ready to forego every safe sex lecture he ever received.

“Be safe, kids,” Minho mumbles. Yoon narrows his eyes at him.

“Are you being smart?”

“I would never,” Minho says.

Yoon tightens his grip. Minho bends back inward, tugging against Yoon’s fingers, grinning. When he opens his mouth Yoon closes his eyes.

_Ah_.

“Fuck,” he tries to say, but it doesn’t even come out, just gets caught in his throat, lost in the parts of him that Minho is swallowing. His hips jerk weakly. Minho grazes a hand up his stomach and Yoon takes it, tries to listen.

He hears the slick sounds of Minho’s mouth, the aborted huff of his breath as he moves. He hears Hoon and Jinwoo’s hands on each other, shaking the bed, trying to get comfortable. He hears his own heartbeat, thudding loud.

Hoon says, low, not meant for him, “I don’t wanna hurt you.”

Jinwoo says, with a serene confidence that makes Yoon’s thoughts race, “You won’t.”

Hoon laughs, though it sounds strained. For the first time since they started this he seems shaken. “Hey, Minho said I’m big.” He’s trying to be light.

Minho pulls off, and Yoon squeezes his eyes shut harder, digs his nails into Minho’s palm. “He’ll be fine,” Minho says.

There’s a strangled noise from Hoon. “Wait. Wait, _who_ have you been fucking?”

Jinwoo laughs, thin and high. Yoon puts his hand over his eyes. He can feel Minho moving between his legs, an incremental rocking of his upper arms as he puts his hand back. He wants to look but doesn’t want to do anything to fracture the way he’s feeling, over-stimulated and over-sensitive, so aware of the others and the way they touch.

He feels possessive. That’s it. That’s the strange, careening feeling in his chest, the cliff-drop that has nothing to do with his building orgasm, everything to do with the people on the bed with him.

Maybe he can blame it on the alcohol, the fact that he feels like if he doesn’t get off right now he might cry, the fact that he wants to build a house on foundations he can trust and keep them in it, forever.

“Minho,” Yoon whispers.

Hoon and Jinwoo are shushing each other, laughing through it and gasping. Yoon didn’t hear the condom tear but there it is, caught in the bedsheets and poking into his hip. Minho kisses his inner thigh and then swallows him down again, like he knows.

Minho hikes his leg onto his shoulder. Yoon reaches down and touches his face, the soft skin at his temple, at the corner of his eye. His hair brushes against Yoon’s knuckles as he moves. Yoon likes it, has always liked it, really, how he never cut it short until that stupid show, how he sat in front of the others on purpose so they would play with it.

He breathes in. He wants to see.

“Minho,” he says again, and opens his eyes just as Minho looks up, as he spreads his fingers wide across Yoon’s thigh and deepthroats him.

Yoon digs his heel into Minho’s upper back and tries desperately not to come.

“You are _so_ good at this,” he manages to say. He wants to keep his grip on Minho’s hair but his body isn’t listening, and he can’t focus on much right now besides the wet, stretched shine of Minho’s lips and the way his hand looks around Yoon’s dick.

Minho hums. Then he makes a thick noise in the back of his throat, his eyes widening.

Yoon follows his gaze, looks over at Jinwoo with his forehead to the bedsheets, Hoon bent all the way over him, the abrupt movement of their hips and knees.

“ _Shit_ ,” Yoon says, blindsided. Minho groans in agreement — Yoon feels it, twitches.

Jinwoo tilts his head to look at them, color high in his cheeks. His hair is stringing together with sweat, falling into his eyes, and he’s breathing heavy.

“Why are you _still_ wearing a shirt,” Yoon manages. Jinwoo laughs, his eyes creasing up, and reaches back to grab Hoon’s hand from his hip, pull it forward until he gets the hint.

Hoon’s chuckle has an edge to it. His knuckles catch the edge of Jinwoo’s shirt, push it up until it hooks over his shoulder, twisted around his upper arm and his neck. Hoon spreads his hand flat and wide across the bare plane of Jinwoo’s shoulderblade and rocks him back until he tosses his head and exhales, shuddering.

Yoon reaches with the hand that’s not on Minho, pushes aside Jinwoo’s hair enough to see his temple, his ear. “Good?”

Jinwoo’s voice is faint. “Really good.”

“Yoon-ah,” Hoon says.

Yoon pushes his hips up, feeling his legs get tense, desperately grateful for the warmth and pressure of Minho’s body at his waist. “Yeah?”

“Get closer. Please. You two.” He says it into Jinwoo’s neck, a hissing inhale on the last word. “Please,” he says again.

Yoon looks down at Minho. He’s already looking up. He pulls off, slow enough that Yoon can catch his breath, says in a rasp, “Move up further, they can watch.”

“Please,” comes Hoon’s voice, strained and high, and then, “ _Ah_ , ah.”

Jinwoo groans, low. Minho grabs Yoon’s arm, tugging him awkwardly as he sits up. Yoon scoots back, pulling Minho with him, trying to get horizontal, somehow, on this bed that was emphatically not built for this.

Yoon props himself half-up against the wall, but thinks better of it when Minho crawls towards him, his mouth a pink mess and his hand around his dick.

“Do you want me to—“ Yoon starts.

“I want to make you come,” Minho says. He pushes apart Yoon’s knees, trying to figure out how to sit without falling off the bed. “Let me make you come first, okay?”

Yoon nods so vigorously that he hits his head against the wall. Someone giggles breathily. They’re all close enough now that Yoon doesn’t have to look to follow the rocking of their bodies, the steady push of Jinwoo’s forearms, Hoon’s elbow into the mattress. When Jinwoo flexes his hands his knuckles graze Yoon’s side.

Minho’s still moving around, looking for an angle. His hands on Yoon’s thighs make him shake. He feels strung out, spread thin across four bodies, four concurrent losses of breath.

“Shh,” Minho says, his arm finding its way under Yoon’s knee. Hoon’s balance shifts. As he leans to touch Yoon’s face the bed creaks with it.

The tips of his fingers graze Yoon’s cheek. Yoon turns into it and kisses them, or tries, until Jinwoo keens softly and Hoon pulls his hand back, curls in to regain his balance and his rhythm. He kisses Jinwoo’s neck over and over again and says, “ _Baby_ , baby,” and then says, “Can I call you that? You’re older than me.”

Minho chuckles, jacking Yoon off slowly, mouth still excruciatingly far away from his dick. Yoon searches desperately for the mental fortitude to pull his hair again but kind of just wriggles pathetically. Jinwoo laughs helplessly, says, “Call me anything you want.”

“Good,” Hoon says, relief audible in his voice. “Baby.”

Yoon reaches over and tangles his fingers in Jinwoo’s hair. Hoon presses his open mouth against his knuckles. Yoon says, “Minho, I want—“

“What do you want?” Minho asks, picking up the pace.

“I want to _come_ ,” Yoon grits out.

“So come,” Minho says, and then his mouth is on him again, and Yoon is pushing his hips up with force, trying to get his knee around the new angle of Minho’s shoulder, using so much more of his strength than he ever would with anyone else like this because Minho is moaning openly, playing it up, barely holding Yoon’s hips down enough to keep himself from choking.

Jinwoo twists in Yoon’s grip, and he still has enough presence of mind to let go, but Jinwoo exhales and goes, “No, no, that’s good, put it back.”

Yoon puts his hand back in Jinwoo’s hair and thinks _Fuck, fuck, fuck,_ doesn’t realize he’s saying it out loud until Hoon says thickly, “Your _voice_ , shit, I wish you could hear yourself.” Minho groans and Yoon echoes it, and he realizes as the muscles in his chest and legs tighten that Jinwoo has struggled up to his elbows to watch, that Hoon’s holding himself still over his shoulder, his eyes wide.

“Minho,” Yoon gasps, for what feels like the hundredth, the thousandth time, and comes.

Someone makes a long, low sound.

His ears ring. He doesn’t remember closing his eyes. Minho is moving, though Yoon’s too gone to register when he lost that warmth, and then there are lips against his and Minho’s tongue pushing a bitter, wet taste into his mouth.

Yoon cups Minho’s face in his hands and kisses him, as deep and open as he can. He’s shaking, the tension still bleeding out of his legs, but he feels so warm. Minho is smiling, and Jinwoo is humming low in his throat, and Hoon’s breath sounds harsh.

Minho pulls back, his weight still heavy on Yoon’s chest. “Yeah?”

Yoon laughs. He runs his hand down to the small of Minho’s back, following the ripple of his spine. “Yeah. God.” He can feel the afterglow crinkling his eyes, making his smile even cheesier, but he can’t bring himself to care.

The bed creaks as Jinwoo shifts, says, “Okay, they’re having a moment. Keep going.”

“Oh my god,” Hoon says, “Are we _not_?”

“We can have a moment when I come, Seunghoon-ah,” Jinwoo says.

Yoon says to Minho, very seriously, “This is the best day of my life.”

Minho laughs. His face is red and Yoon can feel his hard-on against his hip. It can’t be comfortable after this long.

His clarity of mind is coming back with his breath. He scrapes his nails against Minho’s side, experimentally, and Minho twitches.

“Hey, Minho,” Yoon says.

Minho rubs down into Yoon’s hip. “Yeah?”

Yoon says, “Touch yourself.”

Minho sucks in a breath. To the side Hoon chuckles thickly, but when Yoon looks over he’s got his fingers tangled with Jinwoo’s in the bedsheets, his head bent down and hair swinging with their movement. Their quiet gasping seems so loud in the still room.

There’s a shift of weight, a heavy creak of the bed as Minho sits up. He’s looking too, his mouth open and his throat bobbing.

“You want to go to them?” Yoon says lowly.

Minho nods. He’s kneeling over Yoon’s waist, and he’s got one hand on Yoon’s stomach to hold himself up as he strokes himself. Yoon feels almost over-sensitive, like the parts of him that Minho isn’t touching are a bit raw, but he pushes away the quiet discomfort. Minho’s hips are starting to move.

“Hyungs,” Yoon says. “You good?”

Hoon laughs, heavy. It sounds like the words are hard for him. “I’m pretty close.”

Jinwoo stretches out his hand, the heel of his palm pushing down into the mattress. “Here,” he says. “Minho-yah.”

Minho stares at Jinwoo’s outstretched hand, then looks up at Yoon.

“Go,” Yoon says, because he’s all loose from his orgasm and Minho is trembling slightly and he wants them all to touch each other just as much as he wanted them to touch him. He pulls his legs in and knees up and struggles into a sitting position. Minho follows Jinwoo.

Their balance is off. Hoon reaches out to Minho too quickly and there’s a brief noise of outrage from Jinwoo before they fall back into step, as Minho grabs Hoon’s hair to kiss him and then breathes out, “Can I—yeah, okay,” when Jinwoo pulls at his thigh. They’re laughing and gasping and breathing heavy, trying to get Minho down on his back and then trying to climb over him, too many limbs and too little composure to be elegant about it.

All of them look strung-out and messy. Now that Yoon’s come he realizes how obscene the sounds they’re making are, sticky bodily noises and drawn-out moans and Minho saying “Please, fuck, please,” like he’s in porn. Yoon thinks about saying _I love you_ but figures it’s not the time.

He pulls a pillow into his lap, hugs it. He’s getting cold, but they’ll be warm when they’re done.

Hoon’s movements are getting jerky. He’s got his hand between Jinwoo and Minho but Yoon sees him falter, hears Jinwoo’s low hiss and Minho’s groan. His shoulders tense and he leans in, pulling Jinwoo back against him, and says in the roughest voice Yoon’s ever heard from him, “Baby, can I—“ and Jinwoo grits out, “ _Yes_ , God, yes.”

Minho reaches up and touches his face when he comes, pressing his forefingers and then thumb against his gasping mouth, dragging down his bottom lip and then coming up to trace his taut eyebrows, the corner of his watering eyes.

“You,” Minho says, and loses the word. Hoon groans, low and loud, and tumbles off them and to the side.

Jinwoo makes a lost sound and tenses, his eyes closing. His shirt falls back down to his waist. The sudden absence of Hoon makes him look small.

Yoon watches Hoon shudder into stillness, and then watches Minho grab Jinwoo around the waist and flip him, Jinwoo’s arms curling around his neck, pressing as much of their bodies together as he can. Jinwoo’s legs kick up, trying to get them even closer. Yoon can’t see Minho’s hand between them but he gets the gist.

On the bed next to them Hoon sighs, thick and content as a cat. He rolls on his back to pull the condom off and Yoon averts his eyes, weirdly conscious of his own gaze — it feels too intimate, somehow, even though this whole night has been an exercise in granting permission. He stretches his leg out and pokes Hoon on the crown of the head with his big toe.

Hoon looks up and smiles, lazy and soft. He rings his fingers around Yoon’s ankle and settles back down, head on his arm, to watch.

Minho is saying things that don’t sound like words, his voice breathy and rough. Jinwoo is moaning quietly, and all Yoon can think is of every time he’s made little noises in response to losing a video game, or tasting something unexpectedly good, or moving from the warmth of the studio into the winter chill, and how different those noises will sound now.

His hand jumps to Minho’s back. He leaves four visible red lines, from the nape of Minho’s neck to his curving ribs.

Hoon draws circles into Yoon’s ankle and watches them with avid, open eyes.

“Minho-yah,” Jinwoo gasps, and then the last syllable draws out, _Ah-ah, ah_ —

“Baby,” Hoon whispers, low. He moves like he wants to touch them but thinks better of it, brings his fisted hand down into his chest and holds it there.

Minho chokes out, “God—” rocks down once, abrupt and shaky, and then goes limp into Jinwoo’s arms.

“Good,” Yoon says quietly. Hoon looks up. Yoon hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but he lets Hoon lean upward and kiss his calf, the soft underside of it where the muscle isn’t tensed. He doesn’t mean to shiver, either, but Hoon smiles.

“Cold?”

Yoon pulls the pillow further into his chest. “No.”

“Aw,” Hoon says. He looks back to where Jinwoo and Minho are kissing, slow and exhausted and open-mouthed. It makes Yoon feel stupid and fond to see them be so gentle with each other.

Hesitantly, like he’s trying not to startle them, Hoon reaches out and touches the red lines Jinwoo left on Minho’s shoulder, then spreads his hand flat.

Minho turns to look at him. Jinwoo drops his head back into the mattress, his eyes closing and his lips curving up. “Hi,” Minho says.

“Hi,” Hoon says back.

Yoon’s heart is doing dolphin flips. He tells himself sternly that this is not a normal post-sex feeling. He tells himself that he can feel this way _maybe_ on the day he gets married. His heart cheerfully ignores him and continues to sing.

“I’m like,” Yoon starts.

“Mmm?” It’s Minho’s voice, all scratchy and languid.

“I’m good right now,” Yoon says. He sinks deeper into the pillows at his back, thinks about slouching all the way down and getting under the covers. “I feel really good.”

“Me too,” Jinwoo says quietly. Minho murmurs assent.

Hoon says, “Want me to turn off the lights?”

“Please,” they all say at once.

He makes a show out of standing up, stretching and groaning and kicking his legs out. His workout regimen is doing him good, Yoon thinks — he looks like a dorky, rumpled marble statue. He drops the tied condom into the trash can and wipes off his palm on his hip.

“Okay, wait,” he says, looking at the floor. “Who needs pants?”

“We’re all naked,” Minho says, finally lifting himself off Jinwoo to crawl towards the headboard.

Jinwoo snorts. “You got come on my shirt,” he says, looking down at it.

“That was a mutual effort,” Minho mumbles. He finds tissues on the nightstand and sticks a handful out at Jinwoo. “Here. Sorry.” Jinwoo gives him a wry look and wipes off his stomach, then the hem of his shirt, narrowing his eyes at it like he’s trying to decide if it’s too gross to keep on.

“Whose are these?” Hoon asks, popping up from the floor, holding someone’s underwear.

“Mine,” Jinwoo says. Hoon tosses them at him. He ignores them, crawling to the side to throw the tissues in the trash can.

Hoon lifts up another pair of underwear. He doesn’t seem to see the irony in holding it between his thumb and forefinger. “How about these?”

“Also mine,” Jinwoo says. “This is my room.” He wriggles into the boxers Hoon tossed at him, then flops forward to curl up next to Yoon. He lays his head on Yoon’s shoulder and hums.

Yoon kisses his forehead. “I missed you,” he says. Jinwoo wrinkles his nose, trying not to smile. Yoon looks over him at Hoon, who has found his own underwear but hasn’t put it on yet as he kicks around the floor, looking for Minho’s. “Show-off,” he says, louder.

Hoon shakes his ass at them. “Oh my god,” Minho says faintly. “Stop flapping your dick around, you dumbass.” Hoon throws a pair of boxers at his head.

“The cats are gonna wonder where you are,” Jinwoo mumbles.

“Poor babies,” Yoon says mildly. He catches his boxers when Hoon pitches them at him and tries to squirm into them one-handed so he doesn’t have to let go of Jinwoo. Jinwoo looks smug for ten seconds and then helps.

The light flickers off when Yoon isn’t paying attention. He blinks, trying to regain his sight. A milky figure across the room tries to walk towards them and stubs its toe loudly.

“Ow,” Hoon says, sounding offended.

Minho giggles.

“Fuck off,” Hoon says good-naturedly. He makes it the rest of the way to the bed without incident, pokes his knee into Minho’s side. “Big spoon or little spoon?”

“Little spoon,” Jinwoo says immediately.

“You could at least pretend,” Minho grumbles.

“Nah,” Hoon says. “Scoot over, cutie.”

Yoon peeks over Jinwoo. “I want a pet name.”

Hoon pokes at Minho until he squishes into Jinwoo’s side, then wraps an arm around his waist. “Nerd.”

“No,” Yoon says.

“Take it or leave it,” Hoon says, muffled by the pillow and Minho’s hair.

“Do we all fit?” Jinwoo asks.

“I will make us fit,” Hoon says valiantly. “Keep scooching.”

Yoon presses his back flat against the wall. Jinwoo curls into his chest, and Minho’s knuckles graze against his stomach as he settles next to him. Hoon reaches across them and squeezes Yoon’s upper arm.

He realizes they forgot to pull up the blankets, but sweat’s still drying on all of their skin. Jinwoo kept the shirt, and even if Minho gets chilly, Hoon runs warm.

“Good?” Yoon asks, a whisper in the still room.

They’re already drifting off. Yoon takes their half-worded murmurs of agreement, the perfect quiet chorus of their voices, and visualizes wrapping it up safely, tucking it into that place in his chest that’s still singing. Then he closes his eyes and sleeps.

**Author's Note:**

> un fucking believable that i am the first person in this tag
> 
> [title](https://no-wasted-words.livejournal.com/213072.html)


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